


A Stillness that Lingers

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Series: Home is Not a Place [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Closeted John, Co-Sleeping, Developing Relationship, Evolving Intimacy, Friendship/Love, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, The Final Problem Doesn't Exist in this Universe, semi-naked cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 09:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12554140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: Casual touches follow, each seemingly more charged, more intimate than the last.They don’t talk about it.Sherlock has been tempted to reciprocate, but has deemed it too risky. He doesn’t know what it means or where it is meant to go.  He assumes John doesn’t either.  Best to allow John to set the pace.It becomes their habit and routine.And so it goes for months…





	A Stillness that Lingers

**Author's Note:**

> I've decided that 'Home is Not a Place' should be a series, so consider this the second instalment.

_John trembles every time.But still—he touches._

* * *

It started the night of the Bradshaw case, two months after John had moved home.There was a scuffle in the stairwell of their hotel.There was a knife drawn.There was blood—a lot of it. Most of it the suspect’s, but there was no way of knowing that in the moment.

The second the police arrived, John had hurried Sherlock away to their shared room, slammed the door with enough force that the paintings on the walls bounced, and had forced him into the nearest chair, breath shallow, lips a tight, thin line, and stripped him of his shirt. 

His fingers had trembled as they carded through Sherlock’s hair, examined his scalp, his neck, his jaw.His hands shook as they probed Sherlock’s torso, loosened his belt.His eyes were uncharacteristically full as he unzipped his flies, pulled his trousers off, slid over his hips, dipped into the small of his back, smoothed over the tops of his thighs.

It wasn’t until nearly every inch had been probed, and only a few small minor lacerations had been found, that John finally remembered to breathe.He slumped back on the end of the nearby bed, took a deep, trembling breath, and buried his face in his hands.

Sherlock had said nothing.Done nothing.

When John was ready, he had gathered himself together and tended to Sherlock’s wounds, and then retreated to his own bed and gone to sleep without another word.

* * *

The next time, was a week later.Sherlock had Rosie in the foyer, seated on the second stair leading up to their flat.It was a battle of wills.Sherlock’s to get her into her wellies, and Rosie’s to resist all attempts. 

John, who had been out hailing them a cab, came back in, walked over to administer his usual firm tone, and when he had reached them, had leaned over to be more at her level and placed his hand at the small of Sherlock’s back to balance himself—cold hand on warm, bare skin where Sherlock’s shirt had ridden up.

Sherlock’s blood sang, John’s fingers trembled, even as his thumb slid in one brief caress over Sherlock’s spine before he squatted down and took matters with the boots into his own hands.

* * *

Two days later, Sherlock had called John over to look at something on his laptop.John stood next to him, where he was seated at the desk, and placed his hand on the back of Sherlock’s chair.His knuckles had brushed against Sherlock’s back through the fabric of his t-shirt.Sherlock had proceeded to point to something on the screen, something small enough that John would have to lean down to look.John’s forearm had made further contact—trembled.

Sherlock had talked and talked—about anything.It didn’t matter.Just to keep John there, just to keep his fingers on the chair, anxious and eager against Sherlock’s back.

And then, quite unexpectedly, John had lifted his hand from the back of the chair and cupped it around the back of Sherlock’s neck as he leaned down to look at the screen again.He’d left his hand there as he talked.

Sherlock had forgotten how to breathe.

* * *

Casual touches follow, each seemingly more charged, more intimate than the last. 

They don’t talk about it. 

Sherlock has been tempted to reciprocate, but has deemed it too risky. He doesn’t know what it means or where it is meant to go.He assumes John doesn’t either.Best to allow John to set the pace.

It becomes their habit and routine.

And so it goes for months…

* * *

Today is Saturday.Autumn is breathing its first golden whisper through the trees of Regent’s Park.Mrs. Hudson is downstairs kicking up the most ridiculous racket with an unsolicited rash of pre-pre-holiday cleaning.Molly has come and taken Rosie to the zoo. 

John is lying in.It’s good.He sleeps a lot these days, and Sherlock can see his skin regaining some of it’s old glow, his eyes getting their old sparkle back, and his appetite returning. 

Sherlock steps out of the shower, only to realise he has no towel, and no clean ones in the linen cupboard.He shrugs into his dressing gown, and trudges upstairs, shivering, still dripping in spots, ringlets plastered to his head and trailing small rivulets down his neck and spine.

He roots through the piles of neatly folded laundry John has set out on the table near the landing.Nothing, nothing…Nothing!He starts in on the laundry basket with a huff.

“What are you looking for?”

Sherlock spins, forgetting, momentarily, that he is standing completely naked, save for a dressing gown slung loosely over his shoulders.

“A towel.”

John’s not saying anything.He’s just standing in the doorway to his room, eyes bleary, hair a tousled riot, face still soft with sleep, and he’s staring at the bare strip of Sherlock’s body visible beneath the drape of his dressing gown, throat to ankles, and everything in between.

Sherlock doesn’t move.“There weren’t any when I got out of the shower.”

“Should have checked before you got in.They’re in my room.I was folding last night before I went to bed.Come on.” 

John disappears into the artificial twilight of his bedroom.Sherlock follows.He hovers by the doorwhile John moves to the dresser and pulls one of the clean towels off the top, unfurling it as he does.“Here.”

Sherlock takes it, holds it in front of the gap in his dressing gown. 

John looks down.His eyes linger a moment before he looks back up again.“Where’s Rosie?”His voice is rough with sleep.

“Molly took her to the zoo.Mrs. Hudson has gone quite mad cleaning.” Sherlock adds without knowing why.

John nods.“Might go back to bed for awhile, then.”

“Oh.” Sherlock says, but makes no move to leave.

John doesn’t move either.Finally he sighs, as though he’d taken a deep breath at some point and forgot to let it out.“Come here.”He motions for Sherlock to hand him the towel.“Sit down.”

Sherlock gives John the towel, sits on the edge of the bed, and folds his dressing gown modestly over his lap as John drapes the towel over his head and begins to rub his hair dry. 

It’s vigorous, the way a parent might dry a child’s hair.Sherlock doesn’t mention that this is not the way one dries curls, that his hair will be a mess once John is done.It’s too much of a surprise, and he doesn’t want to ruin it (whatever _it_ is) here in the close, velvety quiet of John’s room.

When John finally pulls the towel away, his eyes widen for a moment, and then he chuckles.“Oh.Seems I’ve made a bit of a mess of it, now.”

Sherlock smiles, and drops his eyes ( _too much…_ ).“It responds better to a soft touch.”He looks back up, but the smile has left John’s lips, and his eyes.

He nods.“Yeah?I’ll try to remember that.”

They aren’t talking about Sherlock’s hair anymore.The air has changed.It is like the still before a storm.But not a thing of chaos and destruction…No.It is the still before a storm that brings much needed rain to a parched landscape, the kiss of cooler hair to a heat oppressed city.It is change coming—needed, necessary, a blessed shift.

Sherlock doesn’t dare breathe.

John takes a step forward, and Sherlock instinctively parts his legs a little, lets John in, naturally and without hesitation.A hand lifts, hovers near his temple, fingertips barely making contact with his skin, with his hair, shaking, fluttering, sinking, carding into his curls.John’s palm cradles the side of his head. 

Sure now. 

Solid. 

Real. 

He leans into it without thinking, the touch a relief, a release he hadn’t realised he needed.And John seems to feel it too.Sherlock sees his shoulder’s drop, his whole body melt.He takes one, last step forward, his knees bumping up against the mattress, and lifts his other hand to join the first, caressing, cradling, guiding Sherlock’s head to his chest. 

His heart beats quick and quiet beneath Sherlock’s ear; his breathing is shallow, needy, and he still smells of sleep and just the slightest tang of sweat. Sherlock has to will his body not to respond, but it is so much at once, all of it new, all of it fascinating, intoxicating, wholly, blissfully overwhelming.

John isn’t saying anything, and so Sherlock remains quiet as well.He isn’t sure what is happening, but it’s not a spell he wants to break with meagre words in the midst of such pregnant silence. 

One of John’s hands has slid down and is cradling the back of his neck, just like the day in the lounge.The familiarity of the touch grounds him.He remembers to breathe. 

But, John’s breath catches once, twice, and then again.He’s crying, Sherlock suddenly realises.And so he does what seems to come on instinct.He wraps his arms around the back of John’s thighs and holds on tight, holds him in, close, holds him together.

When John leans into it, into him, Sherlock lets himself be led.When John’s centre of weight shifts, Sherlock lies back, shifts to give John room to settle his body atop of his. 

John isn’t saying anything, isn’t looking at him.His breath is coming in small pants, his movements are rushed, desperate.He buries his face in Sherlock’s neck for the briefest of moments, breathes, moves his lips against the delicate skin there, and Sherlock feels his whole body light up, has to fight again, to keep the arousal from becoming painfully evident. 

But then John pulls back suddenly, slides down, rests his head against Sherlock’s chest, and knots his fingers in the arms of Sherlock’s dressing gown instead.His cheeks are rough and damp against the bare, sensitive skin of Sherlock’s chest.Finally, he settles, grows quieter. 

Sherlock wraps his arms around him and wonders if they will sleep now, like this.If this is what will happen today, and if it is, what that means, and what might happen tomorrow.

“Sorry.”It’s so quiet, so small, Sherlock isn’t even sure if he’s heard it or not.

“For what?”

John is silent for a long time, and Sherlock is just starting to wonder if he’s fallen asleep, when he speaks again.“I don’t know…This.”

“What is _this_?”

“Don’t know.”

Sherlock can feel John’s lips move against his skin, tickle the sparse hair on his chest as he talks.He lets a hand trail down the length of John’s spine, and slowly back up again, to tangle in the hair at John’s nape. 

“I don’t believe there is anything to apologise for.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

John doesn’t say anything after that.He does sleep, a pleasant weight atop Sherlock’s body, anchoring, warm.And Sherlock stays awake, stays very still and listens to him, feels him breathe, learns the rhythms of his body at rest, catalogues them away for future reference.

It feels different this time.This settling is different, this stillness is the sort that lingers.John isn’t trembling anymore.

John is still, solid, quiet, home.And even as he sleeps, curled atop Sherlock’s heart, John is waking up.It’s a slow unfolding.It will take time, but time is something they have now, and Sherlock has gotten very good at being patient.

**Author's Note:**

> But don't worry, he won't have to be patient for too long. ;)


End file.
